


The First Nine Lives of a Nowhere Boy

by asuralucier



Category: VA-11 Hall-A (Video Game)
Genre: At What Point does Man become Machine, Crapsack World, Crossdressing, Cyberpunk Hitmen, Drinking, Gen, Knife kink kind of, Loss of Identity, M/M, Spying, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 20:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16415684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: First, it was two dudes in the middle of the Hong Kong Riots, and then it was a weird cat-and-mouse game cut short by God forbid,sentiment, and then finally, it’s like that bad joke they always tell, don’t they? The one that starts with two dudes walking into a bar.(Jamie and Gil, variations on a theme.)





	The First Nine Lives of a Nowhere Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I have shipped these two ever since I found out that they were named after Gillian and Jamie Seed, who are an estranged couple featured in the video game _Snatcher_ for Sega CD way back when. This um, also didn’t turn out terribly shippy.

Gillian serves Jamie a drink. It’s a Gut Punch, Jamie’s preferred go-to with a buttload of karmotrine just the way he likes it. After all, when you’re half machine you gotta work harder to get drunk. Still, before properly chucking down the drink like a real man, he looks at the tumbler glass with some suspicion. “Um, you didn’t slip anything interesting in there, did you?” 

“What, you mean, would I _poison_ you in the bar where I work?” Gillian says, raising one eyebrow. “Let’s go with no for this one, okay? Dana would kill me. Besides, our bar is dying perfectly well on its own. Did you hear that they’re closing us down just before New Years’, can you believe that? Where would all these poor people go to get pissed?” 

 

“Wait, wait, don’t shoot.” 

Jamie holds the gun steady in his hand. He’s cocked the trigger, but for the moment, he stays perfectly still. 

“...Who sent you?” The other man -- his mark -- says. His mark is holding up his hands in the spirit of universal surrender, but there is something about his posture, the way he holds himself that boasts a quiet confidence not usually found in folks just about to kick it. Jamie hasn’t been in this gig for that long, but he doesn’t fancy himself an amateur either. There’s an element of devil-may-care-who-gives-a-shit that radiates from the straightness of his spine, that Jamie finds himself intrigued by this, even as the man is preventing him from doing his job. 

And it’s all about the job.

Jamie is good at his job. 

“You know, asking isn’t going to do you any good,” Jamie says. “I still got to shoot you and collect my paycheck.” Jamie isn’t a dirty hungry capitalist by any means compared to what’s out there, but he’s still got to make a living and in this case, making a living means shooting his mark in the head and being done with it. You’re the one that they’ve been all up in arms about, aren’t you? The turncoat that made it off with all of the meds.”

“The turncoat that made it off with all of the meds,” the mark says, “I almost like that. Makes me sound like some kind of Nightingale.” He gestures, “Mind if I sit down? I’ll put my hands on top of my head.” 

“Sure, okay.” 

The mark sits and laces his hands on top of his head. 

“Want a cigarette or something?” 

“That’d be nice,” the mark nods. “My name is Gillian, by the way.”

“Isn’t that a chick’s name?” 

“Could be,” Gillian says. “My mom nabbed it from one of those glitzy digital mags. Gillian is probably a famous actor or a famewhoring nano rejecting junkie or both. Or maybe it might not be my real name.” 

“You keep that up,” Jamie held the end of an unlit cigarette in his mouth. “And you’re not getting a cigarette.”

“Sorry. I really would like one. It’d probably take the edge off when you shoot me.” 

Jamie sighs. He lights up and hands Gillian the cigarette. Gillian takes it from him and inhales deeply. 

“Okay, you can shoot me now.” 

Jamie is a chatty guy. He’s always been. The thing they don’t tell you about being a hitman is that it helps if you don’t look like one. You can sneak up on folks, catch them unawares and then -- _bang_! Blow their brains out. Jamie kind of probably looks like the hit man type -- he’s got muscle, one of those brooding faces, and an optical implant that definitely doesn’t shout friendly across rooftops. But he is friendly enough and sometimes this is a bad thing. 

“Why don’t you tell me where the meds are?” Jamie says. “That way, maybe we can work something out.” 

“Don’t feel like it,” Gillian shrugs. “Plus, I need ‘em.” 

“So not a Nightingale, then.” Jamie pushes the barrel of his gun closer to Gillian’s head. The man is clearly not unfamiliar with intimidation tactics because he doesn’t even flinch. “If you’re dead, pretty sure you won’t need any meds.” 

“You won’t find the meds without me,” Gillian says, still sucking prettily on the cigarette probably because he knew Jamie was still looking at him. 

“We can always upload your brain to the Cloud,” Jamie tells him. “Sure, it might take a couple of days, but I bet I could get to the bottom of this. And then we’ll donate your brain to science to be prodded around some more.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Gillian says. The only outward change in his body language is the stuttering of his hand holding Jamie’s cigarette, but thanks to his implant, Jamie can see the man’s heart rate jump and the fattening of his veins. What he doesn’t see, are tumbling nanomachines guiding the flow of Gillian’s blood.

“Don’t tell me, you’ve…” 

“No machines,” Gillian laughs. The gesture is strenuous and he doubles over in a coughing fit. “I know a guy. But honestly, said guy has no follow through. So you know, I do the best I can.” 

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Jamie says.

“Like a bleeding son of a bitch,” Gillian agrees. “There’s nothing else quite like it.” 

 

 _Like a bleeding son of a bitch_ , Jamie thinks later, as they strapped him down on a metal hospital bed, _doesn’t even begin to cover it_.

 

It’s pretty damn cold in Neo-Moscow’s G3n3s1s sector, but if there’s one thing about being fitted with a cybernetic arm, it’s that you don’t quite feel cold. Cold is like the distant thing that pricks at the pores of Jamie’s still human skin, but other than that, it’s not even much. 

“I’m looking for Anya?” 

Jamie’s cock is human; human enough so that it twitches as the girl flips off the stool in such a way to show off her goods. “You mean the _Baboushka_.” The girl says, “Okay. You wait here. Want a drink?” 

“A Marsblast would be nice,” Jamie assents. 

“Okay. Natalia here is the best at Marsblasts, she’ll make you one. I go get Anya.” 

 

“Anya” is a slightly older woman than very perky Natalia and the girl who had gone to fetch her. “Anya” is done up in a way that betrays her profession: so much caked on that Jamie can’t really tell what she looks like underneath, but first impressions hardly ever lie (in that they tell you not very much, but just enough). Jamie peers at Anya through the top of his half-drunk Marsblast and decides not to drink any more since Anya looks like she can take care of herself. Jamie is an equalist at heart because a gun doesn’t care what you’re packing and rightly so. Anya also doesn’t look armed, which is a start.

“...You wanted to talk to me?” Anya says. Her voice is surprisingly low, but there’s an almost inviting quality to it that’s not unfamiliar. “If you do, please leave whatever you’re carrying with you at the bar.” 

“What if I’m into a sort of thing?” Jamie presses, mostly playing the part more than being into a sort of thing. Though truthfully, he is into a few things, here and there. 

“Then we discuss a pricing structure and you use one of mine,” Anya gives him a look, a gaze wandering between amused but also severe. “Something I can trust.” 

“Just so you know,” Jamie unclips his gun belt. He suddenly feels naked without it. “I’m a perfectly trustworthy guy.” 

“As am I,” Anya says. And then she seems to catch herself, “Although in my case, obviously I’m a perfectly trustworthy lady. Your knife too, near your boot, please.” 

“How’d you know I’m carrying one?” 

Anya smiles, showing teeth, “Lucky guess.” 

 

The song and dance over with, Jamie follows Anya down a winding hallway and into a room the size of a closet. There’s a mattress on a few blankets thrown over it probably just for looks. 

“I didn’t come here for sex,” Jamie says. “I just wanted some information. A reliable source told me that if I wanted top notch information, this was the place to be.” 

Anya shrugs, she seems suddenly bashful, “Don’t know about _the_ place.” She leans her hip against the door reaches for a cigarette. “But I suppose I do keep an all right eye on things. Who are you after?” 

“A KGB agent,” Jamie says. “You know, not my usual scene, but I gotta use up all my vacation days.” 

“We do get them in here from time to time. You can always tell who they are because they’re almost always skittish.” 

“Really?”

“To a trained eye.” 

“Where’d you train?” 

Anya shrugs, “Also the KGB. I know what I’m talking about.” 

“No doubt,” Jamie says. Anya’s lighter doesn’t seem to be working, and after a moment, Jamie feels compelled to offer his own, “ -- Here.” 

“Thanks.” 

“So tell me more about this KGB agent,” Anya says, drawing a long inhale from his cigarette. 

“Well, he’s. Apparently the slippery type, but they put me on the job because I’m used to his type.” 

“What type is that?” 

“The smart aleck type,” Jamie says. “Breezes by the seat of his pants, only out for himself.” 

“Is that what you think of him, too?” Anya asks, “He doesn’t sound too nice. No wonder you want to get rid of him.” 

“I don’t know. Is there such a thing as a nice KGB agent?” 

Anya smiles again; this time, the smile is really not so nice. Coupled with the smoky fog clouding her face, she looks almost predatory. And it is in that moment, that Jamie thinks he knows, but then he feels the familiar poke of a knife in his back, “ -- Your spine still human?” 

Her voice has changed too. 

“Nope,” Jamie says. “So you know it won’t do me any good if you poke me there. All they got to do is wire me back together. -- Gillian, right? You can use that name now. Dressed like that. Not that I mind. I even kind of like it.” 

“Why is it always you?” 

“To be fair, I’ve only come after you three times.” Or was it two? 

“And that is a very unlucky number,” Gillian says. “I’m Gil now, mostly. Gil Pilsetsky. Apparently if you’re in trouble all you gotta do is take a Gil Pill.” 

“A Gil Pill. I like that,” Jamie agrees. “Can I turn around?” 

“No funny business,” Gil says. 

“None. Unless you want to be a bit funny, I don’t mind.” 

The knife digs in harder at Jamie’s back.

“I’m just kidding.” 

When Jamie turns around, he doesn’t see Anya. He sees Gil(lian) in nice makeup, and he thinks to himself, _what a way to live_. 

“And what happened to you?” 

“Long story,” Jamie says, idly putting a hand on Gil’s stockinged thigh. All things considered, since Gil’s holding a knife, a fairly bold thing to do. 

“Yeah?” Gil says, placing the knife level with Jamie’s neck right along his Adam’s Apple, which makes Jamie think that it is organic and can take the coolness of the metal. “I’ve got time.” 

 

“ -- Soon I’ll have all the time in the world again,” Gil says, wiping the rim of a martini glass. There was a washing machine, but Jamie has since learned that Gil is all about process. He’s learned that since Anya and probably should have seen the beginning of it with straight-shooting Gillian. 

“You know what they say,” Jamie shrugs. “World’s your oyster and all.” 

Gil puts down the glass and leans forward on the bar. There is no one else in (though they do run the risk of Dana being asleep in her office). “The world’s a dump.” 

“Still,” Jamie allows himself to trace a hand over Gil’s mouth. He’d done it once before, when the man wore lipstick and a woman’s face. “I can’t wait to see what you look like.”


End file.
